


Four Times Hawkeye Didn't Salute and One Time He Did

by annabeth_at_the_helm



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: 1950s, Adultery, Bisexual Hawkeye Pierce, Drinking, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Humor, Infidelity, Korean War, M/M, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Trapper is of course married, alcohol use, attempted humor, handjobs, men fooling around behind his wife's back, piercintyre - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:07:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24772858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth_at_the_helm/pseuds/annabeth_at_the_helm
Summary: Five times fic. Exactly what it says, with a twist.
Relationships: "Trapper" John McIntyre/Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce, Hawkeye/Tommy Gillis (mentioned)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 44





	Four Times Hawkeye Didn't Salute and One Time He Did

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shadesofhades](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadesofhades/gifts).



**I. Private**

"You're a nancy boy," Colonel Flagg says, raking Hawkeye with serious, slightly demented blue eyes. "I've got it right in here in my notebook—" he points to his head "—and that's all the proof I need for a court-martial."

"With all due respect, Colonel," Hawkeye says, staring into those blue eyes hard enough that Flagg's little notebook should be catching fire, "I'm not Nancy. She's a lieutenant, pretty titian hair, blue eyes—"

"Think you just described Nancy Drew," Trapper says, body on a lean towards Hawkeye, voice lowered just a bit.

"Don't play the fool, Captain, because that won't fly with Colonel Flagg. You don't respect your superiors, and you are definitely _like that_ ," Flagg says, eyes casting around as if for spies.

"You might not be a fool—" Hawkeye is doubtful of this, "—but you're definitely paranoid."

"I must dash," Flagg suddenly imparts, and straightens up, staring at Hawkeye. Hawkeye lounges against the wall, lazily chewing on a toothpick, as Flagg continues to stare.

"Oh," Hawkeye says. "Were you waiting for something? Ta, Colonel."

Flagg, eyes darting back and forth, looks like he wants to argue, to dress Hawkeye down for not standing smartly and saluting, but finally gives into his own squirrelly nature and disappears. Trapper, who has also refused to salute, grins.

"Sure think he's barkin' up the wrong tree with you, Hawk."

Hawkeye watches Trapper's lips move—he hears the words, but they barely register—and imagines all sorts of naughty things that would probably scandalize Trapper, late of a community of perverts, and prove Flagg right, and simply smiles around the toothpick.

"Who can say with that man," he posits idly, and links arms with Trapper. "Back to the Swamp for a drink?"

"Don't mind if I do."

++

**II. Corporal**

"I'm your superior officer! This is outrageous! You and your… your… _minion_ have taken this prank too far!" Frank is incandescent with rage, and Trapper looks none too pleased to be called Hawkeye's "minion."

"It's just a little glue in your shampoo, Frank," Hawkeye says.

"Maybe to you! You're insolent, you drink like a lush, you're irreverent, you sleep around—"

"Sounds like a pretty string of compliments to me," Hawkeye says. "Trap, what say you to a lunch date?" He shrugs into his overshirt, gesturing to Trapper, who is still buttoning up his army briefs. Hawkeye has to swallow a few times because his mouth has run dry. It isn't like he doesn't see Trapper in various stages of undress _all the time_.

It's simply that it undoes him every time. His mouth dries out, he begins to sweat a little, and his cock rises to the occasion like it thinks he's going to do something about this inconvenient—and illegal—attraction he has for his best friend. Not to mention, if the court-martial doesn't kill him, losing Trapper's good regard will.

"I'll, uh, meet ya there." Trapper puts one leg into his fatigues. "Not quite dressed and I wanna write to my girls first."

"Kay then, see you," Hawkeye says, heading for the Swamp door. Just as his hand contacts the wood, Frank says, high-pitched enough that only dogs should be able to hear him,

"Aren't you forgetting something? I'm a major! You're lucky the glue stuck to my hand first, Pierce, or—"

"Or what? Go whine to Margaret, Frank, only she can bear your company. Fuck knows I can't, because you _are_ a bear, one with a wounded paw, always bellowing." And he lets himself out of the Swamp, whistling cheerfully, as Frank stomps behind him, clearly expecting Hawkeye to show respect to his _superior officer_.

Hawkeye doesn't. He just maunders along the compound, hand shading his eyes, enjoying some late spring sunshine and lack of wounded.

No need to salute a ferret-faced weasel like Frank, anyway.

++

**III. Sergeant**

"Pierce, I just wanted to thank you and McIntyre for helping me sober up the other night. I really needed it to be there for the wounded soldiers, and you did me a favor." Margaret is standing just inside the Swamp, one hand fussing with her hair, as she watches Hawkeye and Trapper, who are lying on their bunks like the lazy swine they are.

"It was no trouble, sweet Margaret," Hawkeye says, granting her a benevolent smile. It was, actually, some trouble, involving a cold shower—Trapper got very wet, and propositioned besides—and injected drugs, not to mention a lot of coffee. Margaret hadn't complained about the coffee, even though it was the best the mess tent could do—and ever did—which was to say it was _very bad_ coffee.

"Really, honey, taking care of ya was a pleasure." Trapper is laying it on thick, which is probably going to backfire, since Margaret likely doesn't remember that she was flirting with him in such a hardcore fashion.

Margaret has wandered over to Frank's side of the Swamp now, picking up the picture of his mother and looking at it—she should really know better, Frank bites the head off of anyone who dares to touch it, and that probably includes even his wartime paramour—and setting it back down. It takes a minute, but Hawkeye realizes Margaret is actually _embarrassed._

"It was unprofessional," she says. " _I_ was unprofessional, and unbecoming of my rank in the army. I hope you won't tell anyone." Now she's fiddling with Frank's Bible, as if she has to surround herself with the miasma that is Frank Burns's attention, to live in the polite but dangerous fiction that she's Frank's lover rather than his _other woman_ , because she can't seem to look them in the eye.

"We won't say anything," Hawkeye says. "Rank and file, and all that, et cetera."

"What does that mean?" She's giving him a wary, uncertain look, from beneath her eyelashes.

"It means you were so wasted you _were_ a bit rank," Hawkeye says, and she flushes. He supposes that was somewhat mean, but his mouth, as usual, ran away with him.

"We promised Henry we would help," Trapper adds, winking at her, even though she's barely looking in their direction. She finally glances up, meeting their gazes in turn.

"You're both good eggs, I suppose," she says, flipping a curl of hair back over her shoulder. Hawkeye has the sense she wants to adjust her oak leaves, as if this will make her feel more like herself and less like a woman who had allowed herself to let go the other night. But she was entitled, Hawkeye thinks, even as he studies her. She's beautiful and even though she's as Regular Army as they get, and probably salutes in her sleep, she does have a decent streak. It's usually hidden by her associations with Frank, because he brings out the worst in her—in, well, _everyone_ , to be honest—but it's there.

"Have a nightcap on us, Margaret," Trapper says, getting up and going over to the still. He picks up the glass pitcher, but she shakes her head.

"I can't. It wasn't just unbecoming of an officer. It was out of character for me, and I don't want… I don't need to allow that to happen again."

"If you got plastered again, darling, we'd still take care of you," Hawkeye says. Trapper shrugs, pours himself more gin—Hawkeye holds out his hand—tops up Hawkeye and sits on the edge of his cot.

"Listen, just, thank you, okay? But please—don't tell Frank especially."

"Have a good night, Margaret," Hawkeye says, and lifts his martini glass in a gin salute. It's not a real army salute, of course, and Margaret huffs.

"You're impossible." She turns to look at Trapper. "And you too, McIntyre."

"Always pleased to be of service," Trap says, smiling his most fanciful—and endearing—smile. Margaret seems only slightly mollified as she leaves the Swamp, the airy scent of her perfume lingering.

"I don't think she remembers putting the moves on you, Trap," Hawkeye comments as he lies back and enjoys his martini.

"Ah well," Trapper rejoins. Afterwards, they enjoy their martinis in silence, and Hawkeye tries not to let his gaze cut over to Trapper too often—he could get in a lot more trouble than Margaret would for putting the moves on Trapper.

Such a shame, as Trapper is beautiful.

++

**IV. Captain**

"Pierce, you need to stop antagonizing Frank. I've got a headache from drinking too much, Lorraine is sending me more and more frantic letters, and you and McIntyre might be my best surgeons, but Frank leaves footprints on my head the more times he goes over me to call General Hammond."

"It was just a little glue, Henry," Hawkeye says, throwing himself in a chair, putting his feet up on the desk and crossing them at the ankles.

Trapper is standing near the liquor cabinet, playing with Henry's doll.

"It was glue _last_ week, Pierce. This week he says his sheets were inside out and had a large hole in the middle."

"Must have been when they went out for laundry day," Hawkeye says, lips quirked. Henry might not believe him—Hawkeye doesn't believe himself, because of _course_ he and Trapper perpetrated that prank—but he has to say it.

"And the week before, his shaving cream had been replaced with mayonnaise." Henry pauses, face suspiciously bright, as if he's trying not to laugh. "I sure wish I could have seen him with a face full of mayonnaise. Though I think peeing on his bed might have been the outside of too much. Really, boys."

"He's just unlucky," Trapper says. "And he wet his own bed. _We_ certainly had nothing to do with it." Of course, Trapper is lying through his teeth, and they all know it.

Trapper sets the doll down on the desk—not carefully enough, because it tips over like a drunken version of Margaret—and heads for the liquor cabinet. "Keys, Henry."

Henry tosses him the keys, and Trapper opens the cabinet, perusing the innards for just the right libation for them. After a moment he pulls out a glass bottle, three glasses, and plays bartender for them, filling each glass and passing them around.

"Please, for the sake of peace in the 4077th, just don't pull any pranks for awhile, okay, guys? I'm getting whiplash trying to keep up with Frank's demands."

"You'd need to be in a jeep for that, Henry," Hawkeye says, feet rocking back and forth on the desk, drink in hand, for all intents and purposes the lounge lizard at war that Frank has anointed him.

"And it's wartime, Henry. Expecting peace might be a little unreasonable," Trapper says. Henry puts his elbows on the desk and rests his face in his hands.

"Would it kill you two to be a little more sedate for a bit?" he asks, glancing from one to the other. "And Pierce, put your feet down. I'm kicking you out of my office as soon as you finish your drinks. I have reports to file, the duty roster to see to, and I'm sure Radar has things for me to sign."

Hawkeye drains his glass and thunks his feet on the floor, rising from the chair. He grins at Henry, raises his hand mockingly, and instead of saluting—which Henry knows he rarely does—he holds up just one finger, causing Henry to roll his eyes.

"You're impertinent, Pierce," Henry says, but Hawkeye just gives him his most innocent smile. On that note, he begins to hum and struts out of the office.

Trapper catches up to him, leaning his blonde, curly head towards Hawkeye, and whispers,

"What shall we do next?"

"Let me think about it," Hawkeye says, because he can't come up with a prank to save his life with Trapper right there—that close. And then Trapper's hand is a solid weight on the nape of his neck, and Hawkeye's fatigues are suddenly too tight and constricting, his mouth is dry, and he can feel Trapper's pulse in his fingers against his neck.

Hawkeye's own pulse is accelerating, and he wants to look at his best friend, but he doesn't dare. They've never touched like this before—not quite this intimately—and he's afraid to look at Trapper and suss out what it means.

But Trapper keeps his hand there the whole way back to the Swamp, thumb rubbing just a little, hanging off of Hawkeye. He doesn't let go until they're inside, and then he's pouring another round of drinks.

Hawkeye takes his a little warily, wondering what Trapper's up to.

"Cheers," Trapper says, downing the drink. He definitely just swilled some gin. He refills his martini glass, and Hawkeye begins to understand the writing on the wall. They're getting drunk tonight.

And maybe Trapper needs to be drunk to find his courage. Hawkeye can only hope that the liquid courage he's looking for is what he needs to mess around with Hawkeye.

Because if Trapper feels the same way, Hawkeye will never question his draft notice again.

At least, not out loud.

++

**V. Major**

"It's too damn hot," Hawkeye says, covering his eyes with his arm, "and the sun is too bright. I feel like it's cooking my eyeballs."

"'s because you're hungover, Hawk," Trapper says from his side of the Swamp. He's hungover too. Hawkeye knows this, without even looking at him, because they both spent the night in the Officer's Club trying to out-gin each other.

"The driest martini, so dry the olive is a tumbleweed," from Hawkeye became, "the drier than driest martini, where in comparison the desert is an ocean," from Trapper, until they were too gin-soaked to walk back to the Swamp without hanging off each other.

One thing led to another—as these things do—and they wound up in Hawkeye's bunk, sloppily making out and humping each other gracelessly as they did so. Hawkeye remembers that part fondly—though not the puking that came later—and wishes his head would stop feeling like an egg that has been cracked so that he could look at Trapper. Unfortunately, his eyes are on fire, and refuse to see anything—even the darkness from behind his arm is too bright.

"Trap," he says, attempting to roll over—and nearly falling on the floor, "I think they switched off the darkness in Korea. Everywhere I look is like the direct center of an exploding bomb. Or maybe it's my head that's exploding. Unngh."

"Ya can't see anythin', Hawk, you got your hands over your eyes." Trapper does not sound sympathetic.

"It's not my hands, it's my arm… actually, I think it's a tentacle. D'you suppose we're actually extras in some Japanese erotic movie?"

"I coulda sworn this was Korea," Trapper says. "Hawk, your voice is givin' my headache a headache." There is a faint rustling, and even that makes Hawkeye's head feel like, instead of simply cracked eggs, it's now being fried.

"That's easy for you to say," Hawkeye retorts. "My headache expounded upon itself until it became a master headache with three baby headaches and a wife." This is not the wittiest joke he's ever made, but come on, he's incapacitated here.

"Hah," Trapper says. "My headache _is_ my wife." There is a beat of silence as Hawkeye absorbs this. His brain is not exactly high-functioning at the moment.

"Your wife is a headache," Hawkeye says slowly, feeling his way towards the joke like a blind man in the dark—which he might as well be, due to this hangover—"as opposed to, she _has_ a headache?"

"Unfortunately for me, Hawk, my wife never has a headache. I do, though; sometimes she's in the mood and I just ain't."

"You're more hungover than I thought," Hawkeye says. He rolls again, this time almost rolling off the _other_ side of his bunk. "These cots are dangerous. The Army should really get some that don't pitch back and forth like Navy bunks do."

"That's not the cot, Hawk," Trapper says, "it's the whole compound that's rocking."

"In any case, I didn't think you ever turned down pussy." Hawkeye pauses to think fondly about that, too, though currently his mind is trending towards being more occupied with his bunkmate.

"Ya got a lot to learn about bein' married," Trapper says dryly. "Louise can turn sex into something as dull as dry toast. And she doesn't even know she's doin' it. She's lucky we have two daughters."

"This is why you vary the nurses so much, like some kind of revolving blanket?" Hawkeye remarks casually, wondering if Trapper sees _him_ that way. Does his fellow Swamprat already regret last night? Was that drunken fumbling they did back when darkness still existed just an anomaly? Hawkeye wants to ask—but he's also afraid of the answer.

"Thankfully," Trapper says, voice still sounding like roughened gravel, "the nurses ship in and outta here enough that there's always a nice variety. Christ, my head feels like Thor's Hammer is banging on it like an anvil."

Shit. That definitely sounds like Hawkeye might be carrying a torch for someone who already passed the baton. Is Hawkeye expected to pretend last night never happened, or if it did happen, that he's going to move on to a new nurse this afternoon?

"I'm so hungover I think I'm getting drunk again off the fumes of my own breath," Hawkeye says, wishing he could change the subject—and knowing he won't. "Trap, about last night."

"The driest martinis are the wettest ones coming back up, I agree," Trapper says. He groans in gin-induced agony that Hawkeye doesn't need to hear so much as he feels it down to his bones.

"I didn't mean the martinis," Hawkeye says, wondering if this line of conversation is a mistake. Probably, but no one ever said Hawkeye wasn't completely heedless of anything approaching reason.

"If ya mean the comp'ny to the latrine, I gotta say, Hawk, ya coulda smelled better." Trapper is sounding more and more like he's thinking about dozing until his head stops feeling like an anvil.

"But nurses can't follow you into the latrine," Hawkeye says laconically. "Besides, last night I should have smelled like gin. Sweeter than roses."

"Ya smelled like stinky sweat and dirty gym socks," Trapper replies, huffing into his pillow. It sounds like a rhinoceros farting. Hawkeye giggles with no dignity whatsoever at that comparison, which makes Trapper groan again.

"Trap," Hawkeye says patiently, when he can stop giggling like a tipsy teenage girl, "you didn't mind so much when you were kissing me." Though much like a teenage girl, he's awfully focused on the fact that he made out with _the boy of his dreams_ last night. Or, more accurately, the man he fantasizes about when he wants to make his dick hard.

"I was kissin' ya back, Hawkeye. Too drunk to tell if you were a nurse in the dark."

"That's a lie." Hawkeye squeezes his arm tighter over his eyes. "You kept mumbling my name."

Beat of silence. Then,

"Ya got me." Trapper doesn't sound like he's having a homosexual freakout, but nor does he sound like more of those experiences will be forthcoming.

"Fine," Hawkeye says, heaving a sigh—which is a mistake, actually, because it makes his stomach feel like heaving. "Let's just pretend it never happened."

There is another, longer, beat of silence. Then, Trapper says, taking the bait,

"That'd be hard to do." Sounds of Trapper rolling in _his_ bunk now. "I ain't make a habit out of kissin' fellas."

"That's a shame," Hawkeye says dreamily. He's remembering his first kisses, his first forays into sexual gratification—with Tommy Gillis, no less. Despite how sweet the memories, they're colored by sadness now, too, now that Tommy's gone.

"Hawk." Trapper's bunk creaks and complains noisily; Trapper isn't overweight, but he's a big guy, and he's much more muscular than Hawkeye, which means the bunks sound overtaxed when either of them move—but especially Trapper. "Soon as I can get up without throwin' up, I'm gonna show ya I've turned over a new leaf."

Silence reigns then, for a couple of hours, as Trapper seems to drift back into his doze and Hawkeye, cell by miserable cell, drys out, becoming less and less intoxicated and more sober. He's still got his eyes closed when Trapper's cot squeaks again, followed by light footsteps on the Swamp ground—Trapper is tip-toeing. Some water splashes, then the soft footsteps resume, coming closer.

"Hey, Hawk," he says, and shoves Hawkeye until he can cram himself onto the bunk next to Hawkeye. "I want ya to kiss me again."

"Did you brush your teeth like a good little boy, Trap?" Hawkeye mumbles, swimming up towards full consciousness. Trapper's hands are burrowing gently into his hair, his breath oddly sweet as he leans over him. Maybe the liquor is making Hawkeye's nose have a queer start.

"I did," he says evenly. "Did you?"

"Fine time to ask me that, after you already demanded a kiss," Hawkeye says, emerging from his blanket and beneath his pillow. "But yes, while you were sleeping."

"So kiss me," Trapper says.

"I can't," Hawkeye replies, watching Trapper's expression carefully. His best friend is not giving away much, which is saying something, since he has a terrible poker face.

"An' why not?" Trapper demands, eyes gone soft and dark, the hazel little more than an afterthought around his expanded pupils. Hawkeye wants to extend a hand, to find Trapper's groin, but he resists the temptation.

"Because if I did, you'd be responsible for the trouser salute that followed." Hawkeye is only half-joking; there would be inconvenient erections, but hey, he's in the army.

"Hah," Trapper says. He folds into Hawkeye, seeking his mouth, and for long moments, they just lie there like that, content to kiss and make out and duel for dominance between their tongues—and then Trapper moves, canvassing Hawkeye's face with his lips.

Hawkeye grabs his wrist and yanks his hand down, to where his body most needs to be touched right now.

"See, that, Trap," he says, voice breaking as Trapper's stubble rasps along his jaw, "is a trouser salute. One I don't think you want to be on the wrong end of."

"If it's a gun, Hawk," Trapper says against his face, "ya fire it. I ain't gonna mind." And his hand curls, shaping Hawkeye's aroused flesh, squeezing lightly.

"Harder," Hawkeye pants, unreasonably turned on for such a simple caress, "and it'll go off, all right."

Trapper brings more pressure to bear, curving his fingers more tightly around the rigid column, and Hawkeye struggles to breathe, to speak, to think—but thinking is out of the question. He lets his hips speak for him, as they push up against Trapper's hand, and he tries to have the presence of mind to return the favor, but his body is tautening and his cock clamoring for greater attention.

Just before his weapon does, indeed, go off, he manages to break free of Trapper's drugging kisses and land his own artillery on Trapper's exceedingly sizeable erection. Thus armed, he heads off to battle as if he's truly a soldier, working his fingers and palm against the swollen arousal that throbs thrillingly beneath Trapper's fatigues even as his own twitches and makes ready.

Trapper, not to be outdone and apparently not to be outgunned, either, moves his hand, sliding up, under Hawkeye's t-shirt, then down, into his fatigues. If Hawkeye weighed more—if his belly were less concave—this would not work without unbuckling his belt, but months of mess tent food means there's room for Trapper's hand to delve inside. He finds, unerringly, the source of Hawkeye's "salute," and it salutes him all right, when he circles it with his fingers and grips it tightly. Hawkeye's back comes off the bed, and he strangles himself with his own fingers trying not to scream as the waves break over him, like surfing and not being able to find his feet—drowning, drugging, intoxicating pleasure like he's hardly ever experienced, and never with the man above him.

But he's lusted after Trapper for months now, and is unsurprised that his body would react to him that way—Hawkeye is going to have to go and relearn women, retrain his body, when Trapper—

That thought flies away like 5 o'clock Charlie taking wing as Trapper's hips buck against his hand. Trapper's face contorts—beautifully, to Hawkeye's thinking—and his body is a plucked bowstring, coming apart in a glorious tune that he thinks maybe only they can hear. It's fast, it's rough, and it's inelegant, but they've gotten each other off, and as far as these things go, it wasn't a disappointment—to Hawkeye, at least.

Trapper falls onto his side, breathing ragged, as he fetches up against Hawkeye's side for a bit. Hawkeye is becoming drowsy, eyes desperate to close, when Trapper finally moves to get up.

"Tomorrow, post post-op, in the supply tent," he murmurs against Hawkeye's ear, tonguing it a little before sitting up, climbing off the cot, and stepping away.

He doesn't _seem_ like he's going to have a homosexual freakout. Hawkeye blinks and cracks one eye. Trapper is by the stovepipe, towel in hand, fatigues undone, washing the come from where he creamed himself. Hawkeye realizes, with sudden insight, that Trapper took the brunt of Hawkeye's release on his hand—and not only didn't he panic outright, he went to clean up, and thus, Hawkeye's fatigues survived an encounter that it is abundantly clear that Trapper's did not.

Stained on the inner fly, olive drab army briefs suspiciously absent, Trapper looks like a Greek god standing there washing himself.

"Frank'll catch you," Hawkeye murmurs, hitching up onto one elbow and staring unabashedly at Trapper, gaze quite… frank, actually. He laughs to himself, considers sharing the joke, and is distracted when Trapper shakes his dick at him, a little shimmy and wiggle that makes it bounce.

"Ain't a big deal if he does," Trapper says, "except it's his towel."

Hawkeye is still laughing at Trapper's performance, laughing too hard to be intelligible, when Trapper dunks the towel into the army helmet hanging from the stovepipe and shucks out of his fatigues. Walking pantsless back to his own side of the Swamp, he digs through his footlocker, dresses, and collapses onto his cot.

"Stop starin' and sleep, Hawk," he says.

"Just because my cock saluted you doesn't mean I take orders," Hawkeye says in rejoinder, but Trapper just snorts.

"Ain't an order, but do it anyway. We got post-op in two hours."

This does actually sound like a good idea, and like any self-respecting—read, selfish—man, Hawkeye doesn't cuddle after sex so much as fall asleep, so he does, indeed, drift off.

The faintest whiff of cologne and brush of fingers against his forehead cause him to open his eyes hours later, and he finds a note folded on his pillow.

_Conned Frank into takin' your shift. Give him some scrip and he'll do anything. Sleep sweet, Hawk._

It isn't signed, but then, it doesn't need to be.

END


End file.
